


Loaded Gun

by mercyme



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-18 06:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercyme/pseuds/mercyme
Summary: Arthur Morgan and John Marston live a deceptively mundane existence. However, each has been hiding a secret from the other: they are assassins working for adversarial agencies.(the Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU no one asked for)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is occasional violence depicted in this fic typical of what you'd expect from a spy story. Consider this a trigger warning for blood, injuries, casual references to murder, and poorly written fight scenes.

_My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -_

_In Corners - till a Day_

_The Owner passed - identified -_

_And carried Me away -_

—My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun, Emily Dickinson

***

The stab wound is jagged, slanting over his hip bone like a tilde. He stares at it in the mirror, breath coming heavy and wet from the back of his throat.

Life as an assassin is mundane at times. Other times, maybe more times than he likes, he is bleeding. Sometimes assassin work is hours of recon. Sitting alone in a dark room like a spider waiting for a twitch on its web. Sometimes he's hoping for a miracle as he peels his blood-soaked shirt from his skin.

It's a dichotomy that's defined his life since he met Hosea.

"It’s done,” John balances the phone between his shoulder and his ear, considering his sewing kit. The wound isn’t too deep. Thread is terrible to suture wounds with, anyway-far too little yield. He hobbles out of the bathroom, tossing his kit on the bed and shuffling through his bag for some body wrap. The situation’s not ideal but it’s not like John’s life views are going to be altered by a superficial stab wound or anything.

He keeps his debriefing short.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Try not to kill anyone," he keeps his voice light as he wraps gauze around his waist once, twice-around and around until there is barely enough gauze left to tuck back into itself, "That is, uh. Well, you know what I mean. Expect me back tomorrow."

John doesn't mention getting stabbed. He ends the call and heads downstairs in search of a cure for what ails. The bar that he settles on has two clear goals-providing cheap liquor and four walls to drink it in. John can’t say it doesn’t align just right with his needs.

"Un Kalimotxo, por favor," John's propped himself up against a barstool, sweating in what he assumes is a vaguely unappealing sort of way. His eyes are directed unseeingly at the Barcelona vs. Atletico Madrid football game playing on a flatscreen television above the bar.

He feels stiff and disillusioned with Spain's banking system and Spain at large. It’s been a hellish 52-hour crash course in high profile corporate espionage. This was his first international target and-god willing-his last for the vast, unknowable future. In any case, Sadie, the new hire, seems to be a better fit for this type of job with her unbridled justice boner shtick.

Next to him looms a man with blonde hair that borders on brunette. His shoulders are broad enough to spark something hot in John’s gut, whose attention vacillates between the players in their technicolor uniforms on the tv and the guy’s forearms, where his shirtsleeves are rolled up. To be fair, they’re nice forearms. Veiny. Thick. In the world outside of John's personal espionage hell (what some may call “The Real World”), he tends to chase the ones who look like they could beat the shit out of him. This guy certainly fits the bill.

John gives up on the game and levels his full attention on the man as he waits for his drink, "Hola, ¿que tal?"

The edges of Forearms’ mouth turn up and he responds in English, “Hey yourself.”

“ _Handsome_ ,” John thinks. The bartender sets down his kalimotxo in front of him.

This is where it begins for John.

“That obvious that I’m not a local, huh?” John drops a few euros on the bar.

"Your pronunciation's fine." Forearms’ voice is a low drawl, "You just look like a tourist."

It shocks a laugh out of John; his "embarrassing" (thanks, Abigail), bark-like one. A woman shifts in her seat further down the bar huffily, leaning closer to the flat screen broadcasting the game.

John's mind has tripped over its own feet. A wide empty room with nothing to say.

" _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,” John thinks.

“Takes one to know one. Where’re you from?”

The man's expression dissolves into something more placid. He swirls his drink around, either nervous or losing interest. John beats back the disappointment. Forearms doesn’t seem the type to get nerves.

“Nowhere in particular.”

“It’s nice to meet a fellow traveler," John tries again, surprised to find that he’s not just throwing out a line. Forearms’ accent tickles at a deep and hidden portion of his brain, almost familiar. It sounds like home. John wants to wrap up in it; get real cozy like the hygge craze John’s secretly been indulging in after Tilly lent him _The Little Book of Hygge: Danish Secrets to Happy Living_.

God, his life is embarrassing.

"Listen," Forearms says, "I'm sure it's a pleasure." His eyes run over John without judgment, only a frank consideration. “But I've got some money riding on the game. Or, more accurately, a lot of money. "

"Fair enough." 

John killed a man today. He hurled him through the window of the guy’s top floor corner office, limp body duct taped to a desk chair. Was it Corinthian leather? Does it matter? Point being, what does John know of fairness beyond the fucked-up vigilante justice he’s paid to dole out, anyway?

John caves to his exhaustion and lets the conversation die. It feels like a bigger accomplishment than it should. He’s wearing yesterday's clothes and blood could very well be seeping through them. His hair is disheveled. It's apparent that he hasn't been home in a while. To the passerby, it's feasible that he's another of the many horny tourists flooding in and out of the city. Another set of grimy hands. A whiskey wide smile. God knows he feels like that sometimes-a face with nothing behind it at all.

"So long as it's fair,” Forearms responds blandly, his attention fully shifted to the game. John doesn’t tear his eyes from Forearms’ profile, the slight bump in his nose, until Forearms clears his throat pointedly. John jerks his attention to the game. He truly can’t remember the last time he slept.

The remainder of the game passes in an admittedly uncomfortable silence. The bright lights sear John’s eyes. The players move across the field. The bar shouts and gesticulates around him. Then it's over. Atletico Madrid wins, 2-0. Nice try, hail the underdog, don't pass go, etc.

He pays his tab and edges through the door, the sharp jab of his stab wound easing into a throb. John's got a lot of work to do tonight.  His laptop is waiting for him at the hotel. It's on standby beside the wrinkled, old notepad housing his nearly illegible intel. On the counter rests a 1,85€ bottle of wine and a tv that, so far as John can tell, plays nothing but static. It could be a productive night, if not a good one.

What a travesty, though. What a waste to spend this not-vacation agonizing over the shitty wifi trying to do his actual job.

He thinks about the shoreline and how the buildings run right up to the sand. How nice it would be to see them in person, right now at night when everything’s cast in shades of blue. How nice to go with a man whose big hands could press him into the sand with little effort.

John swings around, back to the bar. Forearms shakes his head mock-forlornly when John lowers himself woodenly back onto the stool next to him.

"So you're a betting man?"

Forearms is quiet, courses of actions running up against their results and dissipating in his mind. "Yes," he says begrudgingly, "When it's worth the risk."

"Well, _I_ bet you won that wager you were talking about earlier," says John, dragging his finger along the bar-top. It’s disturbingly sticky so he stops.

"That so?"

"Yeah. And I bet that I know someone who could help you celebrate."

"And who might that be?”

"I _bet_ ,” John pauses for effect, fingers edging right up to the other man’s forearm, barely ghosting over his skin, “that the celebration might even surpass the win."

Forearms clears his throat again, poorly hiding his blush behind his drink as he finishes it. The glass clunks on the bar when he sets it down.

“Why are your fingers sticky?” he asks uneasily.

John ignores him, leaning close, "Some bets are worth the risk, right?"

A thousand doors move to shut in John's mind.

Clearly, against his better judgment, the man extends a hand, "Alright. Let's shake on it, then."

The doors clatter back on their hinges.

“John, by the way,” John says, taking the offered hand. His cheeks hurt with how broad his grin grows.

“Arthur,” Forearms responds.

And that is how it began for Arthur.

***

The marriage is kept hush-hush; very quiet in the ways that John is not. John can't stop being an assassin because he has a fiancé now.

"No one can come," he says, not for the reasons that Arthur will assume.

"You know that that's part of what eloping means, right?" Arthur's voice comes out muffled-his face is pressed firmly into a hotel room pillow. 

"No, eloping just means that it has to be done in Las Vegas or it's not legally binding.” 

They've been dating for three years and John has kept Arthur like a secret, entirely blind to ( _protected_ _from_ ) his working life. Arthur doesn’t have the barest glimpse of John's career. Simultaneously, Arthur possesses the clearest and most complete knowledge of who John is as a person. To John, it is like knowing the daily machinations of a neighbor but never learning their name. It doesn’t make it right. Very little in John’s life seems to be right without a lean in the opposite direction, these days.

Arthur's hair is splayed across the stark white pillow. When down, his hair is long enough to curl behind his ears. Right now it fans over him like a crown. John wishes he could reach into the back of his mind and draw out how to braid it. Instead, he twists a lock between his fingers.

"You're being stupid," Arthur says but he lacks conviction. After three years maybe the insult has lost its sting. "What's going on?"

Last night, after slinking out of the bed at three am, John’s target had caught him on his knees, jimmying his toolkit into the door's lock. What resulted had been a flurry of slamming doors and footsteps echoing down narrow staircases; shadows lit by dim motion sensors. For the first time in months, John had had to use a gun, and his first thought after the recoil was Arthur. Quiet and thoughtful Arthur, his hand running back through his hair or wrapped around his pen, finishing some anatomical illustration commissioned by some college textbook. Passive Arthur, resident of a world inhabited by civilians and biweekly paychecks that John can navigate only as a trespasser.

John stumbled into a gas station on the way back to their hotel to scrub the blood from his forearms. He'd checked twice to be sure that he didn't have any hard to explain bruises.

The answer to Arthur’s question is Arthur. What's going on is Arthur. This entire course of action, this elopement, is selfish.

"I'm not stupid," he tugs gently on the ash gold lock of Arthur's hair, "I'm John."

John's gotten soft.

"Do you want to have a real wedding?" Arthur asks, shifting on his elbows to look up at him. From this angle, his eyes seem impossibly big and blue.

John’s gotten softer than he was, at least.

"Eloping is-"

"What I suggested originally," Arthur overrides him as he sits up and turns to face him. The sheets pool around his hips. John is reminded needlessly of why he loves afternoon sex. The hotel room windows are sprung wide open and the sun is beaming in, carried on a soft breeze. The midday sunlight is especially kind to Arthur, whose features appear softer in it. Less rugged. More true to who Arthur really is on the inside, John thinks. John is rendered helpless. He throws an arm across his face as his internal organs turn to mush.

"Listen," Arthur starts ( _listen, listen, listen_ , John loves that too-" _listen_ ”-),"I thought it would make things easier. If you want-"

He groans, peeking out from under his arm, "No, no. It's too late. I bought the tickets this morning."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, jaw clenching, “Tickets?"

"To Vegas."

"You're serious."

"No, I'm-"

"John," Arthur cuts him off, a warning yawning in his name. John’s gotten good at it-decoding the different iterations of his name as they fall from Arthur’s lips, what each inflection means. He's getting out of bed. John openly gazes at his ass as he shimmies into last night's jeans and tugs a still partially buttoned button-down shirt over his head. Arthur grabs his phone from the side table and toes on some running shoes. "I need to make a phone call. I'll be back in a minute."

He's not back in a minute. Or three. John, not particularly worried, is on the phone with room service when Arthur does eventually amble back into the room, shutting the door behind him softly. For such a big man, he moves through the world gently.

"Long time no see."

Arthur sighs. John orders paninis.

"You're lucky I love you," is what Arthur says in place of any tangible answer. John accepts it gallantly, nodding amicably from the bed, as though this is a topic he has thought long and hard on. He twirls the phone cord around his finger and he's 17 again, dreaming of bigger things, a brighter tomorrow. Life is so much better now.

The flight leaves at 1600. By the next week, they're married. In the end, it was the small affair they originally intended. They sealed it with a kiss; the world reduced to two wet mouths on a hot, dry Nevada morning. The universe didn't re-align, but it was the start of a good eternity, Arthur had mused. John had indulged him, fully aware that eternity wasn't what either of them had signed up for.

***

The marriage counselor is leveling her gaze on John. It's stern but John hides his discomfort behind an easy smile. He doesn't feel as though psychologists should outwardly pass judgment. Not before the end of their first session, at least. 

The session had already begun by the time John bustled in ten minutes late. Arthur had been mid-sentence when John brushed a kiss against his temple and sank into the plush seat beside him. The sentence died on his lips.

Arthur had rolled his eyes heavenward. Lord, give him strength. Lord, grant him the serenity.

The psychologist smiled mildly, "Thank you for joining us, John."

"Yeah, sorry I'm late. Work kept me."

Beside him, Arthur tensed. John pretended that he didn't notice; pretended that he doesn't do things like notice for a living.

"And what do you do for work?"

"Arthur hates it when I talk shop, but I'm in law. Corporate."

The rest of the session passes in much the same way. Nothing of any depth. A few hard-hitting questions interspersed so that John knows she's listening, really listening. Reading a network of invisible subtitles running below every response they offer.

Nearing the 45-minute mark, Arthur’s gaze is fixed on his hands, hanging loosely between his thighs. He keeps his eyes locked there as he says, "It just feels like there's this...distance between us...And every day we fill it with the things we don't say to each other."

He looks tired. His shoulders sag. They’ve only been married for a few years, it seems too soon for him to be carrying this weight. John wonders idly if he's killing him; if the love that John harbors for him is a toxic thing.

This is not the first time this thought has confronted him.

"Do you have any secrets, Arthur?” The counselor has her ankles crossed demurely beneath her seat. Her notepad is laid flat against her lap and her hair is slicked back into a sleek, black ponytail. She's an image of clean lines. She has no soft edges.

Arthur glances at John. Tired, open, "No, no. ‘Course I don't."

The counselor jots something down on her notepad. The scrape of her pen against the paper is a harsh reprimand. Some ugly part of John is vindicated. A larger part is mad. John hates the thought of this virtual stranger unearthing a flaw in Arthur, seeing something to fix.

"And you, John?"

He takes his retaliation in a way he usually can’t bring himself to: with a broad, open grin and a hint of guilt. He can't look at Arthur when he speaks, so he stares directly at her when he says, “No. None worth keeping, anyway."

After dinner at the new Thai place on the corner that John has been wanting to try, Arthur tugs on the rope around John’s wrists once more for good measure, then moves away from the bed. The restraints are tighter than they usually are. John extends his fingers and rolls his shoulders, making a show of testing their tenacity. They hold firm.

It must've been a rough day with a client, he thinks. Or drama between the departments or a commission falling through. Or that new illustrator, Micah-maybe he's just as awful as their conversation at the last dinner party had lead John to believe. John is fond of the life Arthur leads. He takes comfort in the banality of it; that it is separate and clean from the blood on John’s hands. A rush of love swells through John. He rolls his bare hips up and off of the bed, smirking.

Arthur doesn't smile back. His eyes are cold. Different than John’s ever seen him. He's picking John apart in their mood lighting (John’s big on atmosphere lighting). His jaw is tight and big fists clenched. John reevaluates the bags under his eyes, the sheen of spit on his full, bottom lip where he's been worrying it. Maybe it's more than work.

Maybe it's the marriage counseling.

Arthur lowers himself to the edge of the bed and adjusts his shirtsleeves. He leans over John, the cold buttons on his shirt inches from John’s bare chest.

"Tell me, John," Arthur says and the latent threat in his command clicks crisply at the back of his throat, "how many people have you killed?"

Their matching watches tick on their bedside table. A car drives down their suburban street blaring Carly Rae Jepson.

"What? What are you talking about? Killed?"

John could write a novel about how quickly Arthur’s face shutters closed-how smoothly he retreats from the bed. The softened light from their bedside lamps pool at his wide shoulders and casts his face in shadow. Arthur the hierophant, the tower, death. Ice enters John’s bloodstream-this isn’t the Arthur he knows. His breath comes faster, his intuition informing him that his life as he knows is coming to a shuddering halt. Ah, the implications of a life turned 180 degrees. Of years of autumnal bliss collapsing into winter.

"Don't you dare insult me, Marston." Arthur's voice is trying for detached but it cracks midway through.

"I don't know," John replies then. He has to look away, at the framed photograph of the two of them when they hiked Mt. Elbert at the bedside table. It's from their one year anniversary. His heart aches.

"You don't know.”

If it was ever going to happen, it wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"I don't keep track, Arthur," he says, voice coming out more hoarse than usual. It's a damnation. His pulse is rocketing, his hands feel too faint to jerk against their restraints.

"He doesn't keep track." Arthur murmurs to the wall, "My husband doesn't know how many people he's killed because he doesn't keep track. Why didn’t you tell me, John?"

Then he stands. It should be storming or tumultuous or emphatic but it's a dismissal, instead. He sighs like he has countless nights before; dropping his jacket from his shoulders after getting home late; discussing world affairs; bowing out of group dinners early to catch up on his work. He sighs like he's perusing the past few years of his life and finding nothing noteworthy.

John throws his body into freeing himself, yanking his arms hard enough to feel the bones in his shoulders attempting to rock out of place. Arthur watches him, deliberating. He's deep in thought while John thrashes naked against his restraints.

"I'm going to take the truck now and I am going to go for a drive…I’m just…I need a minute."

"Arthur!" John yells, "Arthur?" Arthur’s steel toed boots sound down the hallway.  "Arthur!"

The door leading to the garage opens and shuts with more force than strictly necessary. He listens for the truck backing out of the driveway and hears it peel out onto the street.

Rocks clattering, tires screeching.

"Well," John says to the ceiling, "That could have gone worse."

John panics.

When he breaks free from his ties, it's around midnight. The motorcycle’s low on gas, so he catches a night bus to HQ. Once his bus rolls to a stop near his innocuous law-building-turned-home-base, it's nearing the wrong side of one in the morning.

“ _How does he know?_ ”

Uncle is behind the receptionist’s desk. Usually, he's not, preferring to read into the responsibilities of a consultant as loosely as possible and rarely showing up at all. John figures this is a "corrective assignment", perhaps for whatever job it is that Uncle’s recently botched, though it doesn't seem to be working. Uncle’s attempting to juggle the stapler and an empty bottle of wine. He promptly drops both when John bursts through the doors (“bursts” being something of an exaggeration; revolving doors save energy but don't do much in the way of drama).

"John, my boy!" John keeps his pace, his stride long and fast as he spans the gratuitous distance between the doors and the front desk, "John, when'd our dear Hosea send you out? Don't tell me it was another Costa Rica situation. I haven't eaten Twizzlers since I swear it-"

"No mission, Uncle," he says, “but could you do me a favor?"

Uncle makes a show of checking his wrist for a watch that isn't there, glances pointedly down at the two bottles of wine empty and cracked by his roller chair. He shrugs, eyeing him blearily, "If you trust me to."

"Can you look up someone for me?" John has a hunch.

A nod. His fingers are ready at the keyboard.

"Callahan. Arthur Callahan.”-Uncle’s fingers don't move-"It's A-R-T-H-U-R.”

John looks from Uncle’s cracked knuckles to his disbelieving expression. The expression on his face is one most of his coworkers save for their special "at least you can shoot" arguments.

John stares balefully up at the ceiling, high and bracketed by a wide, winding staircase, "Uncle, I'm just-I've got a lot going on. Could really use some help here."

Uncle pretends to type for a minute, hands flopping uselessly over the keys, "Nope. No results for Arthur Callahan. AKA, known alias of deadly fucking assassin Arthur Morgan. Really John? Do you seriously not pay _any_ attention to the briefings? Even _I_ know that and I’m usually-”

The phone rings. Uncle and John watch it together for a moment, bonding over the shock. Uncle answers after the fifth ring.

"Hosea!" Uncle calls into the receiver, sounding as cheery as he's ever been in a conversation with their boss. He spins in his chair so that the phone cord nearly strangles him and his back is to John, "Mhm-see, I KNOW I was supposed to call you when he came, but-," he sends a quick, cursory glance over his shoulder at John, ”Minor rope burn on both wrists, that's it…Well, I'm not going to give him a physical here in my lobby, now am I?…No….No idea where the wine…Of course not…Yes your misery, I will tell him."

He hangs up the phone and swings back around in his chair, bringing out a half empty bottle of whiskey from beneath his desk. He offers the bottle to John. It sloshes dark and dangerous beneath the fluorescent light of the lobby and smells like rubbing alcohol. John is having difficulty focusing. He shakes his head slightly "no".

"So! We got good news and bad news for ya, boy.” Uncle says loudly, taking a swig from the bottle, "Good news: Hosea is giving you some vacation time. Bad news: it's mandatory vacation time.”

“I’m suspended? For what goddamn reason?"

Uncle raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t have to say, "On the grounds that this is a seedy espionage organization that we all decided to join knowing that it was nothing close to a democracy."

"What the fuck?” John shouts, certain that Hosea’s feed picks it up in his office. He wants to do more.

“Hosea’s gonna get in touch with you tomorrow, he’s assisting on Tilly’s mission right now. In the meantime, you gotta lay low John.”

"Uh,” John splutters inelegantly, struggling to make sense of the conversation, "...since when has that been one of Morgan’s aliases, anyway?"

"Am I drunker than I thought? Are you drunk?” Uncle scrubs a hand over his face, “Morgan is big on the anonymity thing but even the interns know the aliases of our fucking rivals. No one can force you, okay, but you should go under, Marston. Find an open safe house and get some sleep. This’ll blow over"

John drops his hands, takes a steadying breath. He's right. He's got things to do. A husband to...to what? Find? He doesn’t even know who his husband  _is_.

The phone begins to ring again and Uncle blearily yanks the cord from the outlet. John realizes he's been dumb. Uncle hands him some wine and he drinks deeply.

"Arthur… Arthur _Morgan_?" He asks again. It’s something of a common name, but not by a long stretch. It could all be a coincidence but then how would Arthur know? For being a member of a prestigious assassin organization, Marston is proving extraordinarily incompetent tonight.

The entryway stretches wide and empty around John.

"It can't be that bad," Uncle sighs, clasping his hands over his belly and kicking his feet up on the desk. He resigns himself to a night of playing a functional alcoholic, “Hosea tells me that there was a leak but this surely ain’t the first time. Did Morgan track you down or somethin’?”

John gasps like he's been injected with an adrenaline pen, “Oh my god.” He needs to lie down, needs to get drunk, needs a cigarette, though John gave up smoking regularly years ago. Arthur Morgan, one of the most notorious names in the industry. Arguably the most feared operator for the Van der Linde gang, the gang that John’s own gang had splintered off from after they grew increasingly radical. Which, considering what John's day-to-day looks like, is really something.

"-But I mean, no name recollection at all?" Uncle’s shoulders shake as he chuckles, "It's not like Arthur is a popular name, especially not in this fucking century. I only know of the one, at least.” Uncle tilts his chin toward John’s wrists, “Did he give you those? What’s he look like? Half robot or what? Glad you’re alive, boy."

"I didn't-"

Uncle makes a sweeping motion with his hand, "Hey, don’t lose any sleep, kid. The guy’s got a lot of aliases. So he caught you this time. You got away alive. Just lay low for a while. Go to Moscow or some shit. Lyon. Budapest. Birmingham, Alabama-it’s a big fucking world. I'm telling ya, it'll all blow over."

God, how reckless has he been? Literally sleeping with the fucking enemy.

Uncle is still talking, "By the way, you forgot to take your ring off from your last mission there, son."

"Yeah." He slides his ring from his hand into his pocket, realizing he'd been worrying it on his finger, "it's not-I’ve gotta go. Hosea is right. I need a break. A long break. Uh, do me a favor?"

Uncle groans, "You want me to join when you go into hiding, is that it?"

"I said a _favor_ , Uncle," John says, the pale echo of a smile playing at his lips.

“I’ve heard that one before."

"Delete my file. Please."

Uncle is staring up at him. Disbelieving. Again. "These 'favors' of yours? They’re gonna get me fired."

"I'll find a way to fire you if you don't."

No, he wouldn't.

"On whose authority? You love my taste in music too much, besides." It's true. Tonal Tuesdays and Jazz flute Fridays bring something extra to the office when Uncle deigns to grace them all with an appearance. Sadie's unmasked annoyance almost makes coming in for planning and paperwork worth it. Uncle finishes his whiskey and eyes John critically, "But I'll do it. I’ll try to do it. I’ll call Tilly when she gets back and see if she’ll do it. S’all the same."

"Do it so that even Morgan can't trace me?"

Uncle salutes sloppily, "Probably not. If the rumors are true, Morgan’s pretty goddamn smart."

John salutes him in return and swivels on his heel. He jogs out of the building, tugging his cellphone from his back pocket for a rideshare. He needs to find Abigail.

***

It's edging toward two in the morning, which might explain why Sadie looks so unamused to find John on Abigail’s doorstep. That and their methods tend to clash on a fundamental level.

Sadie steps cleanly outside of the apartment and closes the door behind him. It clicks shut without any promise of a welcome.

"What do you want?" Sadie asks, not unkindly. It never is with her, just straightforward.

"How's Abigail?" John asks, and he smiles (it's shaky), "Is she home?"

"You're not dragging her into this," Sadie says, like it's fact. As though they both don't both know that they're all already involved. John feels hysterical. Sadie pulls out her cigarettes and a match, flicking the match off of her front teeth to light it. She holds the flame to the end of her cigarette and shakes it out as soon as it catches. The faint amber glow of her cigarette illuminates her stoic features, the spray of freckles across her nose.

"Into what?"

Sadie releases the smoke from her lungs in a long line, eyeing John critically, "What do you need?"

The door opens behind her and Sadie is cloaked fully in shadow. Abigail is standing in the light, eyes moving from Sadie to John before rolling her eyes.

"I thought I heard voices," she widens the door, "Come in, both of you, before you wake up Jack."

John has always loved Abigail’s apartment. The muted sage walls are bare save for a single framed oil painting (“Among the Sierra Nevada, California by Bierstadt. Cost a pretty penny, too,” Abigail had told him once, proudly) hung above the fireplace. The floors are an unforgiving, dark acacia wood and the windows are generous, placed high in the walls. It's welcoming in the way that only the home of an assassin and an arms dealer could be.

Sadie leads them into the kitchen, maybe out of habit, maybe to keep her hands busy. For as long as John has known Sadie, idleness has never suited her.

"I almost didn't recognize you without your hair tied back,” John says mildly to Abigail as they follow along behind her, “It looks real nice down.”

"So," Sadie interrupts curtly, ignoring him as she places three wine glasses on the granite countertop. They click satisfyingly, “why are you here at this hour, Marston?"

Sadie navigates around Abigail and grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge. She seems to realize how damning this is last minute and pours the wine into the glasses graciously, eyes trained on the bottle, the lid, and her hands as she pours.

Absently, John recognizes that he’s going to have to wonder just how long they’ve been living together if this mess ever gets sorted.

"It's about Arthur Morgan." John starts, sipping his wine. It’s got a sweet aftertaste that clings to the back of his tongue. He waits for the right moment, watching Abigail’s eyebrows raise minimally. When she raises his glass to her mouth, John continues, "it turns out we're married."

Abigail coughs into her wine and Sadie intercepts Abigail’s glass before it collides with the floor, glaring at John as though he's the only man in the world who's ever wanted to see a real life spit take.

"Arthur is… _Arthur_? You're serious?"

"I wish I wasn't," John replies, knowing full well that he doesn't mean it. Maybe he just hasn’t processed it fully but he can’t bring himself to imagine any world without Arthur that would be better than one with him, regardless of the circumstances. The wine is doing nothing for John. He needs Uncle or Mary-Beth, people of hard liquor. There's a reason why he's here, though. "The problem is-okay, one of the problems is-I didn't find out until after he did. I have no clue how long he's known."

Water almost boils over a pot on the stovetop. His coworkers have found time for pasta between homicide and undercover operations. It maybe should be worrying that John finds this endearing. It's good to see Abigail like this. Happy.

"Not long," Sadie sighs and her breath takes shape in the smoke curling thickly between the three of them. "Your face came up on the system this morning. It wasn’t a leak-someone put a hit on you. Interpol might have seen it, too. Anyway, your cover's blown."

The neighbor's television is playing something loud. The Mummy, maybe.

"What?" Abigail and John’s combined voices push at the peace in the room.

Sadie shrugs, taking an abrupt, near anxious drag. She avoids Abigail’s dagger-sharp stare, muttering, “Sorry hon, didn’t wanna worry you.”

“We’re talking about this later,” Abigail vows with a steel edge to her voice that John is all too familiar with from before their break-up damn near a decade ago.

"Yeah, we had Mary-Beth outside your house running surveillance all day. Thought it was kinda weird that no one moved in the Van der Linde gang, but I guess now we know why. Mr. Morgan must've seen it first."

"He tied me to our bed," John hisses and he's confronted with two faces verging on morbid curiosity and blatant disinterest, "…because he was pissed."

"Understandable," Abigail says, rolling her eyes heavenward as though this is all too typical for him, "you kill people for a living and have hidden it from him for what? An entire _marriage_?" She strains their noodles through a colander. Steam rises.

"Oh, like I'm some homicidal maniac. I'm doing this for the betterment of mankind, you know."

"Cool motive," Sadie says, stubbing out her cigarette in the sink, "Still murder." Abigail shoots a glance between Sadie and the cigarette butt and Sadie huffs, throwing it into the trash.

“Anyway, there were a few times when he didn’t murder," Abigail interjects, listing them off on her fingers," Monaco, Mendoza, Oslo, that third time in the Philippines. Bruges, when he covered for Tilly."

"Oh, and Costa Rica."

"Costa Rica…With the Twizzlers? Brutal." Abigail winces. "Let's hope Morgan doesn't hear about Costa Rica."

“Maybe let’s hope that he does,” Sadie says and both of them erupt into laughter as though he's not three feet from the both of them. John crosses his arms, doing his best not to be put off. 

“You want pesto or ragu?” Abigail asks, bumping her shoulder against Sadie’s.

The door bell rings and Sadie and Abigail share a loaded glance before Sadie moves to open it. Abigail opens a drawer and pulls out a gun. John would feign surprise but there's very little motivation in him to feel anything anymore.

He hears Sadie open the door to silence. Thirty seconds later, Abigail’s shouting, "Shit." and the window above the sink shatters. John’s husband, formerly known as Arthur Callahan, is jumping in, his steel-toed boots landing loud on the wood floors.

Amazing that he even fit through the window.

"Are you gonna make this hard?"  He asks, which is rather uninspired after that entrance. John should have anticipated this from a member of the Van der Linde gang. Dutch is the only one among them with any sense of theatrics.

Arthur’s jaw is working with his anger and John would be a liar if he didn’t find it a little hot.

"Yes. No. Fuck, I don't know." He doesn't move for the gun at his side. He doesn't lunge for a knife, a cleaver-for fuck's sake, it's a _kitchen_. Even the scissors would do. His hands are at his sides and he is useless. Arthur looks almost disappointed.

He takes a step toward John. A dangerous mix of adrenaline and instinct kicks in. John has his gun pointed at Arthur’s forehead, "Wait." He brings the gun against the side of his own head and taps it against his temple, "Probably not?"

The Mummy is still playing somewhere in the apartment building. Downstairs, maybe. John becomes aware of Sadie in the doorway. Abigail’s nowhere to be seen, probably securing Jack.

“John Marston," Arthur says slowly, "Where is your wedding ring?"

"Shit," John says.

Arthur pistol whips him.

"Not in my house, you brutes!" Sadie is shouting, "And you’re paying for that window, Arthur!" 

John scrambles up off of her cool, granite countertop. He deflects a blow from Arthur, their forearms colliding with a flare of pain. It doesn’t shock John that Arthur’s a brawler, throwing his weight into his attacks with surprising ease. John sweeps out his leg and kicks Arthur’s feet from underneath him.

"We don't have to do this," He says, hands in front of him, fingers spread. A dangerous animal analogy would be apt here, but Arthur doesn't appear crazed. He frowns deeper and fires a warning shot above John’s shoulder from his spot on the floor, rolling into a squat.

"Your aim is almost as bad as your cooking, Arthur!" John shouts and books it, running in a frenzied, hazardous way. He surges toward the door without form or any sense of balance, banking hard around the corner of Sadie and Abigail’s hallway.

Arthur puts another bullet in the wall. Abigail and Sadie are going to skin them both.

"That's the second time you've tried to kill me today!" John calls over his shoulder, not trusting either one of them to stop.

"You'd be dead if I was actually trying, _sweetheart_!"

John isn't sure if Arthur is still following him, but he keeps sprinting until he's slumped inside the bus, hands sweaty and shaky as he grasps for a plan.

Because he has to get off somewhere, he resolves to head home. It's possible but unlikely that Arthur would never expect him to do the obvious. The bus takes all of the familiar roads, hits the same stops. John could fool his mind-so pliable and sleep deprived-into believing that he's coming back after a normal day. The predictability of public transit is soothing in that way.

He remembers the nights that he'd been called into work and elected to ignore his phone only for Arthur to have to leave for an emergency-a mysterious illness in the family, a suicidal coworker, corruption in the files he submitted for work. He remembers bruises and scrapes and lumps and bumps. He remembers only learning that Arthur spoke Chinese, Norwegian, German, and French a year after they'd eloped and what a weird thing that had been to hide for so many years.

God, he'd been so stupid.

He'd been so, so stupid. And how long had Arthur known? Since before John had broken his leg two years ago "slipping down the stairs"? Since they first met five years ago, in that seedy bar in Costa Blanco? Is that why they eloped? So Arthur could keep an eye on him and gather intel? Or was it truly just today that Arthur found out, when someone in the world had decided to pay to see John dead?

When John arrives, Arthur knocks him unconscious before he can retrieve the keys from his pocket to open the door. 

***

"How'd you find out?" John asks. It's the first thing he says when he wakes up. They're in a mid-range hotel. The Four Seasons on 8th St, maybe. He’s got a splitting headache. The blinds are drawn against the city and the television is playing The Wild Bunch on mute. John loves The Wild Bunch. 

"Oh," he says, touched, "I love The Wild Bunch. Did you put it on for me?"

"The man tied to the chair doesn't ask the questions," Arthur replies, stoic. He’s pulling out another gun (because apparently, one isn't enough) and checks the barrel. Seemingly satisfied, Arthur clicks it shut with a flick of his wrist.

"You sure look good with that gun, agent," John drawls, working the ropes against each other between his wrists. He is never going to get rid of the rope burn. "Real sexy."

“29 confirmed kills. 13 seriously maimed. No children. The assignment must come directly from Hosea-" Arthur recounts, screwing a silencer onto the gun.

"-What is this?-"

“-highly experienced with explosives, long-range weaponry, and hand to hand combat. Deadeye. Fluent in four languages. Contact in case of death…,” and this is where Arthur’s demeanor shifts from barely collected to visibly enraged, “ _Not available_."

The skin of John’s wrists breaks, tearing against the rope in a way that was once familiar but not so much in recent years. There are some things to be said for domestic life.

"You, John. This is _your_ file. "

John’s chair rocks a little. Maybe one of the legs is loose. That could be useful, push come to shove. "You memorized my file?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, "Outside of a few details, I didn't have to."

John masks the thrill that this sends through him by focusing on the wrinkles in the plastic on the floor below him. Plastic, really?

Someone in the room watches too many true crime movies and it's not the one tied to the chair.

Arthur’s cell rings. He raises it to his ear as he levels the barrel of the gun with John’s knee cap, "Excuse me."

Absurdly, Arthur is thus far the politest interrogator John’s ever had. Is this how he is with everyone? His voice quiet and soft, rewarding information with a "thank you" only to turn around and pistol whip him for not wearing his wedding ring?

“ _Probably not, you idiot_ ,” John thinks, “ _You don’t usually get this type of treatment from someone with his reputation_.” He must be terrifying in the field, a stereotype-defying nightmare with his pen perpetually stuck behind his ear.

"Hosea,” Arthur speaks into the phone, and then a little firmer, “Hosea. Listen. We both know you and Dutch have always gone about things in a different way….We always had difficulty embracing each other’s mindsets," Arthur takes a steadying breath and cocks his gun, "Guess you could say I still got that problem. Don't contact me again. I'm gonna be needing some time to mourn."

Arthur drops his arm a few inches. He pulls the trigger. John screams. Arthur hangs up the phone. Silence reigns supreme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, the drink that John orders at the beginning of the fic (kalimotxo) is red wine and cola. It can also be spelled "calimocho" depending upon where you are in Spain. 
> 
> tumblr if you wanna chat: [cowboy-mercyme](https://cowboy-mercyme.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading! :--)


	2. Chapter 2

_And do I smile, such cordial light_

_Opon the Valley glow -_

_It is as a Vesuvian face_

_Had let it’s pleasure through -_

—My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun, Emily Dickinson

***

**Somewhere in Costa Blanca, six years prior**

Arthur’s mouth doesn’t leave John’s as he hefts John against the wall of his cheap hotel room.

John arches into the broad press of Arthur’s body, his hands coming to rest on his big shoulders, muscles so different from his own. He relaxes into the strength of the hands gripping his thighs, into the feeling of being held up and caged in by Arthur. Manhandled. Helpless to resist.  

Now Arthur’s busying himself with John’s bare chest, mouthing at his clavicle. John’s pulse quickens, head thumping back against the wall with a low moan, baring his neck.

 “How’d you get this?” Arthur asks, trailing wet kisses up to John’s jaw. He leverages John between one of his arms and the wall, tracing the fingers of his free hand along the edge of John’s abdominal bandage.

John doesn’t stop undulating against him.

“Skiing accident,” he says, eyes hooded.

Arthur raises his eyebrows but drops the issue, instead pressing two of his fingers to John’s rest on John's bottom lip. John laves his tongue upon them, taking them into his mouth. He sucks hard, his eyes fluttering shut. Arthur watches for a moment, pupils blown wide, then he leans in to press a near affectionate kiss to one of the red splotches rising high across John’s cheeks.

“D’you have lube?” Arthur asks huskily, now mouthing at John’s pulse point.

“Mhm,” John moans, releasing the fingers from his mouth with an audible pop.

“Wanna fuck you.”

“You’re gonna have to put me down first,” the hoarseness in John’s voice can’t mask his amusement.

Arthur lowers him with so little effort that John’s dick grows impossibly harder. John’s gagging for it, tugging at the zipper of his jeans as he searches for the lube and condoms in his bag. When he turns around, triumphant, Arthur is completely naked. They hadn’t shut the blinds when they’d crashed into the room moments prior and the moonlight crests the expanses of Arthur’s body, catching on the definition of his muscles-

“Ah,” John notes intelligibly, gaze dropping to Arthur’s erection, “ah.”

He can feel the heat rising up his chest to match the blush already cresting his cheeks.

At 21, John feels like a man. Arthur _looks_ like a man.

Arthur’s mouth quirks, running an appraising gaze over John, “You’re staring.”

Once John’s struggled out of his socks, Arthur wastes no time in laying John down on the bed.  John is lightheaded under his solid weight.

Together they discover that John’s got the type of dick that just _slides_ down your throat if you’re feeling up to it. John watches, mesmerized, as Arthur proves that he is, indeed, up for it. His full lips stretch wide around John’s cock.

Arthur’s eyes flick up to meet John’s and John has always been too shy to sustain any type of eye contact during a blow job but he can’t bring himself to look away now.

Arthur’s got him trapped.

Again.

His head drops back against the pillow with another moan, breathing in short, whiny gasps. Arthur presses his lubed-up fingers into him.

He begins to stretch him and it burns, maybe too much, but John knows what he needs right now. He needs rough. He begins moaning wantonly, grinding down to meet Arthur’s fingers as they grow more insistent, working him open, working him good until he finds the spot just _there_ - 

John arches off of the bed, inadvertently shoving his cock deeper down Arthur’s throat. Arthur likes it, clutching at John with his free hand as he continues to stroke John’s prostrate with the fingers of his other. John grabs Arthur’s hair for purchase as he fucks into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur gags and comes off John’s cock with a ragged gasp but it’s too late- 

“I’m cumming, oh _god_ , I’m-“

John’s cum stripes across Arthur’s chin and swollen lips. Arthur’s breathing heavily, staring wide-eyed at John. John is unable to do anything but stare back, mouth agape.

“It’s customary to ask first,” Arthur says wrily but he looks _wrecked_.

He looks how John feels.

“I’m sorry, I-“John’s thoughts shudder to a stop as Arthur drags his hand across his chin and mouth, licking John’s cum from his fingers. John’s openmouthed wonder earns him a smile, a genuine one. Gorgeous, boundless. John feels a spike of arousal pooling in his belly again.

It’s not long after that Arthur withdraws his fingers and moves up John’s body, rolling on a condom as he kisses John deeply. John can taste himself on Arthur and Arthur, he’s lining up his cock and god-

Arthur is filling him up, so fucking thick and good. He thrusts into him, starting short and shallow but soon stroking deeper, harder. Arthur’s dick is big enough to where it feels like it’s filling every centimeter of him, rearranging him. Splitting him open.

“God,” his moan is dragged out of him, “Arthur, _Arthur_ -“

Arthur is all bared skin and rippling muscles. He fucks into him with such force John knows he won’t be able to sit comfortably on his plane the next day. John takes it, legs hitched up around Arthur’s waist. Arthur is biting at his neck, sucking vicious bruises, and it’s so fucking dirty that John feels like he was only ever created for this purpose, for Arthur to fuck him like this.

John’s getting close again—he can feel his dick throbbing for release. He moves to jerk himself off but one of Arthur’s big hands stops him, grabbing his wrist and pressing it into the bed above John’s head.

“Touch me, please, fuck, touch me, oh god, _Arthur_ , I need it, I need it,” John begs, acutely aware of his cock, trapped between them, leaking and flushed.

Arthur shifts John’s legs so that they’re up on Arthur’s shoulders and drives himself deeper. John feels like he’s going to explode out of his skin.

Finally, Arthur jerks off John’s cock roughly and it would be so much worse if John hadn’t been leaking precum for an eternity now, if Arthur’s fingers weren’t still slick with the lube he’d used to open John up earlier. It’s merciless and fast and everything he needed and John is nearly sobbing as he comes again.

Arthur unceremoniously pulls out of John and lifts him to his hands and knees. John’s dick twitches feebly at being manhandled again. Arthur brutally fucks back into him, so deep and it’s not much longer before Arthur comes too.

Eventually, John rolls over and stares at the ceiling, catching his breath. He can hear the groan of the pipes as Arthur turns on the sink in the bathroom. 

There’s a brown water stain in the wall above him. It looks kind of like a chicken’s head. John’s trying to remember the last time he felt so debauched and satiated. He can’t.

He blanches. Was this the best sex he’s ever had?

The bathroom door creaks open and in two strides Arthur is collapsing into bed beside him. Without the consent of his thinking mind, John nestles closer into the heat of Arthur's body.

“You smoke?” John asks, digging out a cigarette from where they rest on the side table. He lights it with trembling fingers, dragging deep. He’s abruptly anxious to make sure that Arthur doesn’t leave, not yet.

“Not anymore,” Arthur huffs. The sides of their bodies line up again, arms and legs pushing into each other, “bad habit.”

Arthur takes the cigarette when John offers in spite of that. John wonders distantly if there are other bad habits Arthur can’t kick, how he can make it on the list.

***

Arthur slips out of the door of John’s hotel room at three AM, committing John’s wild, dark hair poking out from the sheets to memory. He scrawls his number across a notepad on the nightstand but ends up taking it with him, still a coward in some of the biggest ways that count.

***

Arthur’s burner vibrates some thirty minutes later. He shoots a glance at the apartment building across the street quickly before peering down at his phone, brows furrowed.

**Dutch to Arthur, 0324 GMT+1**

_Update?_

**Arthur to Dutch, 0324 GMT+1**

_Pending_

**Dutch to Arthur, 0324 GMT+1**

_What’s the hold up?_

Arthur huffs a sigh. Dutch backseat-assassinates when he’s bored. Arthur’s not one to enable it.

**Arthur to Dutch, 0324 GMT+1**

_Had business last night_

**Dutch to Arthur, 0325 GMT+1**

_Does that business pay as well as I do? Your flight leaves in an hour._

**Arthur to Dutch, 0325 GMT+1**

_First class?_

There’s a lot of Arthur to squeeze into economy seats.

**Dutch to Arthur, 0325 GMT+1**

_For a job this late? Funny._

**Arthur to Dutch, 0326 GMT+1**

_Worth a shot_

From his periphery, Arthur notices a flash of light flood the street as the apartment’s front door opens-the target is slinking out.

“Bold move,” Arthur mutters under his breath. He pockets his phone. The target is bold or incomprehensibly stupid, considering his known associate was thrown from the fifteenth floor of their building yesterday.

Either way, Arthur’s silently grateful.

He shoves his ballcap down low on his head and crosses the street, slicing through the night to fall in step behind the target. He winds some piano wire around his gloved hands. Around and around and around until it presses into the side of his hands, taut.

Their footsteps scuff along the sidewalk. The world is narrowed down to the two of them.

Arthur’s thoughts drift to John. He’s had to make this choice before: the decision between work and romance. He knows where it all leads. A discarded engagement ring on the dresser is a hard left turn from the chime of wedding bells.

Arthur reigns himself in. This isn’t like Mary. This was a one night stand halfway around the world with a guy at least half a decade younger than him.

The target’s got good instincts (or is a justifiably paranoid cockroach) and begins to hustle, taking uneasy, jogging steps. Their paired shadows flit in and out of the glow of the streetlamps pooling on the sidewalk. Then they hit a blind spot and Arthur takes him down with a lurch. He yanks the wire across his throat and jerks him into a side alley.

Simple assignments like these always come as a dulled-out shock. Like the screech of brakes as a train rolls into the station early or the initial plunge of jumping into a freezing pool on a dare. It’s uncomfortable to transition from one state of being to the next. From movement to stillness.

In the target’s final moments, Arthur conjures an image of a rounded river stone sinking to the bottom of a deep stream, water churning above it. The stone falls so deep. It’s untouched by the swirling reeds of the shoreline now. Unaffected. Safe.

The man is gone. Almost too easy. Arthur frowns.

He tightens his grip, enough to leave a good imprint. Unlike amateur hour yesterday with their reckless window stunt, Arthur has a certain degree of professional integrity. He can make a statement without causing an all-out scene. This isn’t James Bond, for god’s sake.

The morning mist is heavy in Arthur’s lungs. Arthur drops the target and hops the fence at the back of the alley leisurely.

The right people will get the message. They always do.

He’s got a plane to catch.

***

The second time they meet, Arthur is sitting on a park bench in Prague. Arthur doesn't know the name of the river he’s on the banks of, just that it's a few blocks from the bus station and that it's secluded, a haven from the onslaught of tourists and Segway enthusiasts.

He’s alternating his attention between doodling the spider clambering around beside him and the river. The water is brown, tinted green by the trees reaching up from its banks. It parts easily for the prows of the slow-moving boats passing through.

“You’re an artist?” a man asks from behind him and Arthur’s hand jerks on his notebook, his pencil streaking a dark line across his drawing’s cephalothorax.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says again and Arthur shifts around to see John squinting down at him.

The first thing he notices are John’s clothes. His shirt is torn at the collar, jeans smudged at the knees with dark, loamy soil. He has to be the dirtiest man on the entire continent.

Then Arthur notices the way that John fills out his clothes, fuller than the last time he’d seen him. Was that four months ago? Half a year? John looks older in a lot of ways, especially around the eyes.

"John Marston," Arthur feels the name leave his mouth like a benediction, "'of all the towns in all the world.'"

They take a moment to stare at each other and then John is strong-arming Arthur into a cab.

Typically, Arthur wouldn’t stick around long after the job he just pulled. But there is something about John that makes Arthur feel like he can’t catch his breath. It's been a while. He and John end up spending the night in a hotel room.

It's a calculated risk, having John like this, fucked out and exhausted in his hotel bed. He gives a quiet little hum of satisfaction as John mouths at the curve of his neck.

“Again?” Arthur murmurs.

He groans but he doesn't swat John’s hands away, and John continues with the slow, careful touches, sliding his fingers and lips across the landscape of Arthur’s body, relearning every inch of it. Arthur arches beneath his touch, mouth opening in a gasp as John’s tongue trails down the notches of his spine, and then lower, mapping the curve of Arthur's ass.

"You've turned into a fucking tease..." Arthur bites out, lifting his hips off the bed in a wordless plea. Arthur is still loose and open, slick from before, and John can't help but slide two fingers into him, pressing deep enough to scrape his fingers just there and watch Arthur’s whole body tense and writhe with want.

The next morning, Arthur leans against the balcony of his hotel room and watches the sun rising over the red ochre roofs of the city, a cup of coffee hot in his hands. 

This time it was John who didn't leave a note.

***

“Arthur?” John asks, and at this point Arthur recognizes the raspy voice without needing to look up. He does anyway, glancing up to catch John’s eye, halfway across the plane. He can feel his heart rate accelerating as John shimmies down the aisle, ignoring the people he’s forcing himself past.

Arthur shifts awkwardly on his seat, trying not to think of Prague a month ago, the bitter tug of disappointment and rejection resurfacing in the base of his throat.

“Do you mind if we switch seats, ma’am?” John half shouts at the twenty-something seated beside Arthur.

As John draws closer, he gestures flippantly at Arthur, explaining, “That’s my dad and I’m a nervous flyer.”

“Oh,” the twenty-something pauses, glancing between Arthur and John. With the total disinterest of someone who would’ve been a perfect seat neighbor for an international flight, she shrugs, “Sure.” 

Arthur’s head is going to explode.

“Thanks, I was in C14,” John says, squeezing into the seat beside Arthur as soon as she clears the aisle.

“Your _dad_?”

“What?” John asks, fastening his seatbelt, “It’s the 21st century, Arthur. Folks are allowed to have fantasies.”

Arthur shakes his head, “You need to start carrying around a plant to make up for all the oxygen you’re wasting.”

“Fuck you,” John says, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

For a nine hour flight it goes by pretty quick.

***

John is asleep in the center of Arthur’s bed.

It’s dusk, the sky transitioning from a sunset the color of halved peaches to night. None of the lamps are on in the house and the window shades are all open. The light of the tv flickers across John’s body where he lies, arm thrown over his eyes, drool pooling by his mouth. Arthur’s tv set is equipped with bunny ears and the local channels. He grew up with the news as a constant, low drone in the background of his life at home and it felt only natural to carry the habit into adulthood. God knows he’s carried worse.

In the half light, John looks peaceful—he’s been growing his hair out and it works in a mangy kind of way. His arm blocks a portion of the scars he'd gotten from a skiing trip, this time in Costa Rica with college friends three months ago.

A preternatural tingle raises the hairs on the back of his neck and he shivers. Last year, this had been Arthur’s room. A sparse launching off point, liable to be abandoned at any moment. The first time he’d come over seven months ago, John had called it “minimalist”. Later, when they were scouting out an actual couch (-“ _and maybe, god forbid, a spice rack to hold spices to flavor food_ ”-) at IKEA, John had informed Arthur that, “Sometimes people say ‘minimalist’ when they’re horny and calling it a ‘depressing bachelor pad’ would ruin the mood.”

Arthur is sure that, at one point, it had definitely been John in the middle of Arthur's house, Arthur’s things. John in the middle of Arthur's life, carving out a space when one wasn’t readily provided. But now—now there are John’s shoes kicked off by the door, a pair of his slacks peeking out from beneath the bed, a neglected cup of coffee on the bedside table. Arthur would never leave a mug of coffee sitting around. For starters, he only uses one mug.

John shifts in his sleep, nestling further into the pillows. Their pillows. Arthur can’t move from the doorframe, taking in the lines of John’s body. The coiled strength there, the scars that dapple his body from a lifetime of foolhardy recklessness, that Arthur at some point seemed to memorize because now he knows where each of them are, even without looking.

Arthur drops the glass he’d been carrying. It hits the carpet with a soft _thud_ and John jerks upright, jolting awake. He takes in Arthur in the hallway and stretches out, cat-like.

“There he is,” John purrs, pleased, “How was your trip?”

"John," Arthur says, voice hoarse, “I’m in love with you."

***

**Present Day**

By the time John has finished running diagnostics, and realized that he is 1. still fully intact, 2. in possession of all of his limbs, and 3. not bleeding, Arthur has finished wiping down the room. John notices a small, black bullet hole a hand’s width from his shoe.

"I'm married to the most gun-shy assassin on the planet," Arthur’s muttering dourly.

He slips his sheepskin jacket on, effectively concealing his double holsters.

The blood still hasn't returned to John’s face, “Uh, what the _fuck_ , Arthur?"

"You thought I would actually shoot you?" Arthur has the gall to look offended, stiffly jamming his hands into brown, leather gloves.

"Not until you pulled the trigger, asshole!" John shouts. This is when the leg of his chair snaps, sending him toppling to his side.

"Fuck," he says into the tacky, mob movie plastic, "fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Arthur finishes packing and shuts his briefcase like he's making a point. He probably is.

"I could really use a hand here, dear.”

"Are you going to run away again?"

John considers it and shakes his head "no". Arthur cuts him loose, the touch of his gloves whispering softly over John’s skin, then steps back to a respectful distance. He seems to be imposing an invisible, four foot boundary between them.

For the record, four feet is totally fine by John. 

Rubbing his wrists, John stands and pretends like the action doesn't make him feel each and every of his 28 years.

"So," Arthur says conversationally, ushering them into the hallway, "when and how did you meet Hosea?"

“How did _you_ , Arthur?"

“Is John Marston an alias you made up on the spot? It's not listed on your file." Arthur opens the door to the emergency stairwell and gestures for John to go first. God help him, John complies. Their footsteps are light on the staircase as they descend.

When the door clang shut behind them, he scrubs a hand over his face, admitting “It’s my real name.”

“What?”

Arthur stops so abruptly that John crashes into his back. Without turning, Arthur grinds out, “Did you say what I think you said?”

“John Henry Marston," John clears his throat, "is my real name.”

Arthur turns slowly, taking advantage of every inch that he’s got on John to loom over him, “Do you usually give out your _real name_ to one night stands? To _assassin_ one night stands?”

John doesn’t point out the obvious, sneering, “Only the ugly ones who I don’t think I’ll ever see again.”

Arthur shoves him none-too-gently against the railing. John elbows him back. They walk in an angry, childish silence for a flight.

"You're not going to kill me. You're not going to throw me to whoever it is that took the hit out on me. So, what are you going to do, Arthur?”

"You know what _is_ on your file, Mr. _Marston_?” -and John can hear just what Arthur thinks of that- “Your marriage.”

“Marriage?”

As they approach the ground level floor, Arthur snaps handcuffs around John’s wrists.

“What’s your spouse’s name? Social security number?”

“God, it’s probably some misinformation from a fucking cover, Arthur,” anger is building in John's chest, “Are you going to be so-so _juvenile_ over a cover?”

“I’m taking you in to one of our safe houses. It’s the only place you’ll be safe while I figure this mess out.”

“I’d like to see you try it, asshole.”

They're moving discreetly through the lobby. Arthur’s hand is perhaps a bit too firm on John’s lower back, winding them through the scant knots of people awake at this hour and bringing them to the parking garage.

"Like hell am I going into a fucking Van der Linde safe house, Morgan!" John repeats, raising his voice.

Arthur looks at him sharply, expression betraying hurt.

"We’re not _that_ bad.”

"That doesn’t even merit a response," John bites out, face reddening, "I'm capable of dealing with my own problems, I don’t need a-a-fucking white knight to swoop in and save me."

It’s an old argument and not one that John usually wins. Arthur crowds him by his shoulders back against the car. He braces his forearm firmly against John’s chest, “You could wind up dead, John. If it weren't for me, you might already _be_ dead. What part of that sounds like ‘handling your own problems’?”

“Oh, pardon me, dears.”

In sync, John and Arthur whip their heads around to see a frail elderly woman in a wide brimmed hat. Her face is heavily lined and she is raising one of her hands aloft, shaking a set of keys.

“I believe that’s my car…?” she tries again.

“Oh!” Arthur’s face reddens to the roots of his hair, “Sorry, ma’am!” He clears his throat, stepping out of the way.

John guesses that this is somehow the worst part of the morning for Arthur as he yanks John by his already crumpled collar to remove him from the side of the vehicle. John acquiesces with a wink over his shoulder at the woman, forced to follow Arthur like a common criminal. Or an unfaithful husband in a silent film. Not that John's ever watched a silent film-

“Have a nice day!” she calls. Arthur makes a noise that is presumably the last of his life force abandoning him.

One can only hope.

They reach an unassuming white car. Arthur has the grace to look apologetic once he releases John.

“ _This_ is what they gave you?” John wonders aloud. It’s the most milquetoast vehicle he’s ever seen. It’s remarkable in its mediocrity. Arthur opens the door for him and John doesn’t feel like he has a choice. He gets in.

“It’s nondescript,” Arthur says, defensive.

“Was a Lamborghini an option, at least?”

“Yeah, because nothing says espionage like parking your Lamborghini out front of the embassy that you’re about to take out a diplomat in.”

 “If any agency would, it’s the Van der Linde gang. I mean, come _on_. Y’all call yourselves a _gang_ for god’s sake.”

Arthur breathes out long and slow through his nose, turning up the stereo. John takes it as the victory it clearly is. They ride in relative silence until Arthur merges onto the freeway.

“Arthur, don't do this."

"Why I shouldn’t I?"

“Because you love me?”

Arthur’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, his mouth flattening into a thin line, "Not that one."

"It's the best one I have," John replies tersely, hand clenching and unclenching around the door handle. He doesn’t necessarily want to jump from a moving car going 70 mph but it would not be the first time. And it certainly beats whatever toxic flavor of protective custody Arthur’s offering up.

As if reading his thoughts, Arthur snaps, "Put on your seatbelt."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?"

They ride in silence for a beat, “My Sharona” rattling the speakers.

“Well?” John throws his hands up glumly, “Is this our last conversation, then?"

"Our entire relationship has been built on lies,” Arthur says, aggressively turning on his blinker to merge into the HOV lane, “Maybe we could do with a little less conversation."

It's on that note that a giant, black wall in the shape of an SUV rams into the car. The metal on metal shriek judders under John’s skin. Time doesn't speed up, but it doesn’t feel like there's an excess amount of it. Enough time for John to panic, to tense up, to remind himself that tensing up will only make the crash hurt more.

“ _Muh-muh-muh-My my my **Sharona** -_”

The car topples to its side. Paper floats mid-air in the cabin. Someone wheezes.

When they make impact, it's loud and the radio stops. The frame of the car shivers and cracks. It’s still sliding when John thinks to check on Arthur.

"You alright?" They ask each other in tandem. The air bags belatedly engage.  

Arthur has a buck knife out, sawing through their seat belts. They share a glance and the balance in their domestic life jilts cautiously into this one. It’s tenuous, temporary.

Arthur unlocks John’s handcuffs and places one of his guns in John’s palm.

"You know how to use it?" Arthur quips, surveying the road, the sparse early-morning traffic lurching by, and the black SUV two lanes over.

"Better than you can, agent," John twists his lips in a grim smile. The sun is rising steadily higher, catching on the broken glass still clinging to the window. John climbs out first, then hoists out Arthur. The gunfire begins immediately. Arthur and John lean shoulder to shoulder against the underbelly of the car as bullets pepper the other side.

"They yours?"

"Can’t be. I’d’ve heard something. Yours?"

Arthur shakes his head once, “Nah, they’d be driving a Lamborghini. You got a plan?"

"We could always run," John offers, cocking his gun. Arthur follows suit.

“You are good at that."

"Is now really the time?" John asks, peeking around the car and counting two people inside the car, one manning a semi-automatic, two with handguns, and another stepping out from behind the wheel. 

Arthur trucks it down the road while John covers him, arms braced on the ruins of the world’s most regular car, firing sparsely to conserve bullets. He manages to hit two of the tires and, as the car is hobbled and sinking, John nicks the man with the machine gun on the forehead. He crumples to the ground. Arthur is nowhere to be seen which is kind of disappointing since that was a pretty clean fucking shot. 

He takes out two more in quick succession, straddling the adrenaline high and taking it for a ride.

The fourth returns fire and John ducks back behind the car and counts his rounds. He angles his head around the bumper in time to see the last man advancing on him. Firing a buck shot, John adjusts the side view mirror to get a clearer look at his aggressor.

Instead he sees Arthur careening through oncoming traffic on a moped. A lime green moped. Arthur adjusts his grip on the helmet in his hand and whacks the remaining man across the face with it. As the man falls unconscious, John books it to Arthur, who miraculously drifts to a stop before him.

Drifts.

On a lime green moped.

“Did you just drift on a moped?” John asks in the tone of voice he usually reserves for, “Can I suck your dick?”

"Put this on.” Arthur hands him the helmet as John slides behind him. The moped is whirring silently in the middle of the freeway as cars blare their horns at them.

John relents and slides on the helmet gingerly. They swerve around cars, maxing out at a top speed of 45 mph.

Arthur maneuvers to someone’s house via a series of back streets. A dagger of curiosity darts through John’s mind. He tightens his grip on Arthur’s waist, feeling unbalanced like he hasn't in years. It’s beginning to dawn on him that John’s not the only one whose hidden an entire life away from his husband.

Arthur dumps the moped in an alley a block away and together they approach a townhome.

"Do you come here often?" John asks. He's fluffing his hair, trying to liven it up after it's confinement.

"That line ever work for you?"

 John jerks away from him, offended, "In what universe would I be trying to fuck you right now?"

A handsome man with long, black hair opens the door before they have the chance to knock, eyes bright with worry that could means lot of things, none of them good.

"Finally," he breathes and ushers them inside.

Pamphlets, open folders, papers, and notices are piled atop each other on his couch, his countertops, and the small kitchen table that appears to be doubling as a writing desk. John knows he leads a whirlwind life, but this man seems fully integrated with the chaos, every movement linking up to an unending forward propulsion.

Relief laces the groan the man heaves as he shuts the door behind them. Briefly, he grasps each of their arms, examining them before confirming that they are sound, and tangible, and not the ruse of severe sleep deprivation.

“Arthur. Dinner is on the table,” he says, and it comes out in the driest monotone, as though he's an eighth grader being forced to read in front of the class.

John watches Arthur squeeze Charles tightly in response, saying solemnly, “It was a hard day at the office, Charles. But someone has to bring home the bacon.”

They nod at one another and break apart.

John has no clue what the fuck is going on.

Arthur moves out of the grasp first. He reverently sets about shutting the manilla folders strewn across the couch. Arthur marks the place they were open to by burying pamphlets between their pages. Charles doesn't notice or pretends not to notice his tidying.

Charles cocks his head at John, brow furrowed. Puzzling him out. Arthur shoots him a look and Charles again doesn’t or pretends not to notice, "No, actually, it would be best to debrief you first."

His voice is soothing, calm. Something about his quiet confidence makes John want to trust him. A catch releases and he sags, collapsing into the couch. Arthur sits on the floor by Charles’ feet, leaning companionably against his legs.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Charles asks, methodically opening and thumbing through the folders Arthur had just stacked away. He locates the one that he'd been looking for and passes it to Arthur. Arthur tenses where he’s leaned against Charles’ legs, eyes widening.

"I was, ah, dropping by to pick up the jacket I left here the other day," Arthur answers.

"What jacket?” John breaks in, annoyed.

Benign exasperation settles like a fog over Charles’ face. He begins to cough loudly, then says, “Sorry—frog in my throat. What jacket?”

Arthur hurriedly passes John the folder and, inscribed in what John assumes is Charles’ sprawling penmanship, it reads, "House may be bugged. Mole highly probable. John currently presumed dead by H & D. Other agencies suspicious.” 

"Y'know, Charles. The grey one."

“Oh!" Charles exclaims, “I think you left it at that place we went to dinner last Thursday. The pizza place.”

Worry edges in the corner of Arthur’s eyes; in the tightness of his lips. John feels it, too-the burden of a hit he may not be able to get out from under.

***

Abigail, Charles, Arthur, and John are huddled in the basement of Abigail’s “Pizza Parlor”. It’s moist, dark, and reminiscent of the set of a Guillermo Del Toro movie. Except with more guns.

John seems off-put, “Abigail’s been the Van der Linde’s arms dealer for years and this is the first I’m hearing of it? Abigail, I see you every other weekend.”

Charles grunts noncommittally.

Abigail shrugs, “Girl’s gotta eat.” 

“I've looked into it and it appears as though John’s identity was revealed in an effort to not only remove John from the picture but also to undermine Arthur’s role in the gang." Charles is very pointedly not looking at Arthur here, “I’ve heard rumors of a hit on Arthur’s head as well.”

He lays out his notes on the table. Tedious records of meetings, sources, and evidence to support or refute rumors. They are appropriately dazzled, “For those of you who don’t know him, our man’s name is Andrew Milton. He works for the Pinkerton Agency. Last known whereabouts: at the Mandarin Oriental in Las Vegas. Apparently our man's a gambler."

“I’ll leave tonight,” Arthur says at the same time that John says, “Where we got married.”

“You’re actually married?" Charles asks, "The two of you. To each other?"

Abigail shoots sheepish look at Charles, “I only know because John and I have a custody agreement, honestly.”

“No, it’s not that,” Charles dismisses her with a wave, “I thought the marital status on John’s file was a mistake. If it’s true… that strengthens my suspicion that taking out John may have simply been the most direct path to Arthur.”

Water is dripping somewhere.

“What was that about handling problems-”

“Don’t start,” Arthur says, glowering at him from across the room where he’s leaning against a wall.

“You can’t seriously still expect to ship me off to some safe house. This is so typical-”

“Typical of who? Because it sure seems like _you’re_ the one-”

“I’ve gotta pick up Jack from a playdate in thirty,” Abigail interrupts, “So let’s talk guns, shall we?”

Abigail tours them her best line of defense for the Las Vegas Plan. She’s holding a semi-automatic when the idea rises in John’s mind. Charles and Arthur have an identical cock to their head, caught rapt by the features she’s rattling off.

There are few hard and fast rules in John’s life. One of them is this: there can be no betrayal without love.

John runs.

***

Arthur arrives in Las Vegas on schedule. From the floor to ceiling windows in the airport, he can see the sun setting and the mountains turning black; the sky above them ripening into the color of cotton candy.

Las Vegas in May is hot. He sweats from the backseat of the taxi. Around him, the signs of casinos- Mandalay Bay, The Luxor, The Bellagio, Caesar’s Palace- blur and blaze like a neon graveyard.

After checking into his room, he fishes out his burner phone and dials a number. He’s not sure that it’s in service anymore.

“This is Trelawny.”

“Josiah. It’s Arthur.”

“Arthur! it’s been a while. How are you, man?”

“I may be getting divorced,” he responds a touch too quickly, unable to quell the anxiety that rises in his throat, “You got any leads tonight to take my mind off it? I’m staying at the Mandarin Oriental.”

“Better to have loved and lost, I always say. Maybe this’ll make you feel better, hm? Room 1110 in the Mandarin. 11 PM. Buy in is half a mil. That’s cash, Arthur. I can get you in the door. Now there _is_ more money to be made in ensuring you’re the only one who leaves the table tonight, if you catch my drift. How’s 30% sound for my take?” 

All Arthur needs is in the door. He grunts.

“I’ll be sure to let the interested parties know. See you around, cowboy.”

The call disconnects and Arthur begins to prepare.

***

“Are you here for business or pleasure?”

Arthur gazes across the poker table, eyes cold. John Milton has sun damaged skin and thinning, sparse hair that makes his impending baldness only that much more obvious. His suit is poorly fitting, yet expensive.

“I’m here for you, Mr. Milton.”

Arthur’s guns are Glock 22 Gen4's. Unassuming and common. Each gun has 15 rounds at .40 calibers. He draws them both and shoots indiscriminately at those gathered around the table.

Despite popular assumption, there is no such thing as being trained to injure or shoot to contain a situation. Due to the high risk of most altercations and extensive variables at play, it’s easier to aim for the center of mass of potential threats.

Which is all to say, everyone shoots to kill when they pull the trigger.

When the shooting is done, Arthur doesn’t check for pulses. Only Milton is left unharmed, the blood gone from his face.

Arthur approaches the table, yanks a clammy Andrew Milton from his seat, and slants a look at his cards.

“Three of a kind,” he observes, forcing the apathy from his voice, “Mr. Milton, come with me and I promise I won’t shoot you.”

Predictably, Mr. Milton acquiesces.

Arthur escorts the gentleman back to his room. Like a nasty rash, John is there waiting when he unlocks the door and hurls Mr. Milton inside.

“You ran away,” Arthur chokes out tightly, feeling out of control, possessed by an otherworldly anger. He wants to take John in his arms and throttle him. He’s been so _worried_.

He transfers this energy to Andrew and shoves him down into a chair. Without looking at John, he removes a length rope from his luggage, securing Mr. Milton a bit too tightly, “ _Again_.”

“I had to. Your plan was flawed.”

“Flawed, huh?” Arthur scoffs, “my plan was— _is_ to keep you safe.”

“Arthur, 90% of this job is danger.”

“That doesn’t mean you should go out and seek it.”

“Who are you people?” Andrew interjects, bewildered.

“Shut up.”

John squats in front of Andrew, “I recognize that you’ve witnessed the two of us working through a few domestic issues. While this is regrettable, you shouldn’t take it as a sign of weakness. That’d be a mistake on your part.”

Drumming his fingers on the bedside table, Arthur yawns.

A muscle flares in John’s jaw, smile tightening. When he speaks, it is through clenched teeth, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to undermine me in front of the hostage, dear. Mixed messages, you know?”

Arthur raises his hands in a placating manner.

“Now where was I?”

“A mistake on your part,” Andrew responds.

Arthur knocks him across the face with the telephone.

“I usually try to be a bit more diplomatic,” John admits, shooting A Look at Arthur, who, over the past 48 hours, has progressed from “soulmate” to “potential murderer” and has now finally graduated to “wild card”.

Andrew groans.

“Why do you want me dead, Mr. Milton?” John asks, as much for Andrew’s sake as for his.

“If you are who I think you are, then I presumed that you already were.”

Arthur picks up the phone again and Andrew blanches, “Easy now. We all report to someone.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s the oldest question since the inception of our profession. Who can spy on the spies?”

John and Arthur exchange a loaded glance.

“There is a man in the Van der Linde's employ named Bell. Micah Bell. They believe his role is to bring information from opposing organizations to them. His real role is to glean information from their agency to take back to us.”

Arthur laughs incredulously, “You can’t seriously expect us to take that at face value.”

John turns to Arthur, exasperated, “You’ve spent your life looking for the weaknesses in my organization. Trying to take us down. Don't you think it's time to recognize there may be as little worth on your side as you reckon there is on mine?”

“That’s another point, entirely,” Arthur responds, stepping in front of Andrew, “How can what you’re saying be true if everything he’s given us is genuine?”

“Oh, very genuine, I’m sure. Certainly he’s the reason you have Hosea on speed dial, consistently receive wonderful leads, were tipped off early about Costa Rica-“

John’s looks up sharply, “That was _you_?”

“-We act as though we can make shields out of our secrets, don’t we?”

“Wait,” John shouts, holding his hands up, “Costa Rica? That was _you_? The Twizzlers?”

Arthur’s staring intently at Andrew, jaw set. 

“All this hardness; but humans aren’t built this way...we can't be alone all the time. Something has to give. And if you know where to look, it is easy to collect what’s fallen through the cracks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been years since I’ve written sex scenes but I guess I’m...back in the saddle again. B-)
> 
> tumblr if you wanna chat: [cowboy-mercyme](https://cowboy-mercyme.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr if you wanna chat: [cowboy-mercyme](https://cowboy-mercyme.tumblr.com)


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